An Aphorism to Live By
by Samara Marx
Summary: 'Who am I supposed to be missing, Tom? It's like he's still here, but he can't be, they killed me – him...' The greatest harm can often result from the best of intentions. Time travel, AU.
1. Prologue: the Cost of War

**An Aphorism to Live By**

**Summary**: "Who am I supposed to be missing? It's like he's still here, but he can't be, they killed me – him..." The greatest harm can often result from the best of intentions. Time travel, AU.

**Main characters: **Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter.

**Warnings**: Language, dismisses the last few chapters of Deathly Hallows, un-beta'd, mentions of death/violence

**Disclaimers**: Everything you recognise to be a part of the Harry Potter universe is hereby accredited to its rightful owner, JK Rowling.

* * *

_Prologue_: _the Cost of War_

Everything, from the photo in his hand to the grass that he glimpsed through the open window in his bedroom, was a delusion. It was there, it existed in every sense of the word, but he had long since determined that existence and reality were two separate concepts that didn't dare touch. Everything was unreal. Everything _had_ to be unreal. He could not find it within himself to accept anything that would counter this fact_. It was undeniable. _

Hermione had tried to convince him in days gone by that for something false to exist, there had to be a reality because, she had said, 'reality simply has to exist for you to even know that any kind of unreality could be remotely possible'. She thought her counter-argument was infallible, had left him sitting on the settee at the Burrow after he had accepted the offer of tea, but Harry thought that she was being uncharacteristically irrational and didn't dare bring the concept up again.

_As if any falsity relied on the existence of reality_, he thought with a grim smile_. As if reality somehow confirmed delusion. Preposterous_.

Harry threw the photo frame in his hands, and its madly grinning trio of occupants, on his bed with a little more vigour than he expected, and left his bedroom with a slam of the door.

The Burrow was near silence today, the only sounds to be heard was the gentle tinkling downstairs of something stirring in the kitchen and the lifting of pages from Hermione's room, and Harry had to cast a silencing charm on his shoes and throw his invisibility cloak over his head to ensure that he was not accosted. The truth was that he found himself wanting conversation less and less with each passing day. It wasn't so much the company that he didn't appreciate - he had known Hermione for years, and what remained of the Weasley's were more than amicable - but it was the aspect of his grand idea that life as he knew it was a mere delusion that kept him from talking more than he had to.

He had come to this fully fledged conclusion at his height of uncertainty, shortly after the death of Ron and before Ginny's escape from the Burrow, but knew that there was no other explanation. No valid explanation, at least. _And_, he reasoned to himself as he walked in the direction of the bathroom, _when all validity was lost anything that remained was the truth_.

Understanding this resonating statement was another step forward entirely, something Harry didn't dare attempt lest he fog his brain further, because being as uncertain as he was five years ago would be one more step towards acceptance, and Harry would never accept what was. He could not accept the way his life had played out, the twist and turns that had defined his life, all his life.

He could not accept that he was a horcrux.

Harry's legs gave way to the bathroom floor. A clatter mingled with his sobs as he knocked over several stray objects, but he didn't pay heed to such insignificant, false objects. He didn't even pay heed to the way in which his legs could no longer bother to move, or the tears that were falling thick and fast.

He couldn't be a horcrux, could he? The feeble thought had adamantly refused to leave him, and was even harder to shake off minutes later as he undressed quickly, ignoring the numbness of his limbs that had allowed him to fall in the first place, looking forward to a cool shower and pointedly avoiding the action of placing his hands anywhere near his heart lest he hear the erratic number of heartbeats that he so often did at night when there was little else to hear. Not one, but two souls, coinciding within one unwilling body. It was barbaric, it wasn't right, it couldn't be real.

But Harry knew it was.

His whole body shuddered involuntarily when he stepped under the cold stream of water, but he couldn't complain, as glad as he was with the distraction from his previous thoughts.

He thought, instead, of the confines of the Burrow and the way in which you could not leave the property's grounds without being restricted of returning, and the way in which the place – that had felt like home in Summers that had long since left him – acted like little more than a prison to him and to all of its occupants, the number of which had dwindled significantly.

Fred and Ron were dead, Ginny had escaped - Harry presumed with a small sigh of acceptance that she, too, had died - and Mr. Weasley had been captured a few years ago. According to the Weasley clock, he was still very much alive but within as much mortal peril as the rest of Voldemort's opposition.

Harry could not help but blame Mr. Weasley's capture for the home-turned-prison state that he was living in; before, he and Hermione would take daily walks through the fields across the village to talk and properly grieve Ron, but after the wards had been proved breakable by Mr. Weasley's departure, they had been strengthened and the Fidelius Charm had been added. Only those inside the house were the secret keepers, which is why any escapades out of the property were improper and life-endangering. Especially for occupants that included blood traitors, mudbloods, and Harry Potter. If one person left, they were sentencing themselves to either betrayal or death – the two worst outcomes, in Harry's mind.

_His mind, much like his heart, that he shared with a part of Voldemort's soul._

There it was, again, that nagging thought that refused to leave him, that sought reference in his thoughts wherever possible. It was damned frustrating, and often proceeded a night of being wrought by the gut-wrenching feeling of guilt. The continuous sensation of being responsible for everything that the war had done to the world...

The deaths, the broken households – hell, he even felt responsible for the children born into such a mess. Was it not, after all, his persisting existence that gave people hope? A heinous hope that - by the time their child had matured in such a ghastly, morose way – they, too, would be able to partake in the mass celebrations of a war won?

By the time that Harry had left the bathroom and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen, his shoulders almost felt heavy with the burdens of responsibility that derived from the fact that he had selfishly ensured Lord Voldemort's prolonged life by being too cowardly to sacrifice himself for the cause.

He just wasn't that noble, he realised. He wasn't that brave; he was scared of death, just as Voldemort was. He was scared of the nothingness, scared to be yet another missing occupant of the Burrow – because that is would he would be, _missing_. He would be missing and people would miss him. He simply couldn't enlarge the never-ending amount of grief that enveloped every one of whom he loved.

It was as simple as that. He couldn't, he wouldn't, and he didn't want to.

And for that, Harry had little doubt that he was the dregs of humanity.

"Another airborne attack over Bristol!" Mrs. Weasley was visibly flustered by the news. "I'd hate to think of – " she stopped abruptly, shooting Harry a furtive glance as he stepped through the doorway of the kitchen, before busying herself with the cooking once more, leaving her previous sentence unfinished.

Harry knew instinctively that she had been about to voice her fear for her husband. It was a conversation topic that she so often avoided.

Arthur Weasley had been one of many pureblood men captured a few years ago whilst he was caught up in one of the strangest events that characterised the second wizarding war. Rumours had surfaced, after around a month of worrying and staring at the ingenious Weasley clock, about the purpose of the mass capture. Mrs. Weasley had struggled for weeks to accept that Arthur had been placed under the command of the Death Eaters by use of the Imperius curse, but as time wore on - and Mr. Weasley still had not been confirmed dead - it seemed plausible.

Harry, too, felt his thoughts drift to Mr. Weasley's current well-being. In his mind's eye, he saw Mr. Weasley's hand on the clock switch to 'deceased'. One blink later he was back to his former position - 'mortal peril'. Harry wasn't sure which was worse.

"Would you like me to warm up some soup for you, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked lightly.

"No thanks," he replied, adding that he's make himself a sandwich later. She smiled at him in response.

"How about you youngsters have a game of Quidditch this afternoon? Within the wards, of course," she added as an afterthought.

Harry made a gesture of wavering on a decision, though he knew for certain that he wouldn't dare be the one audacious enough to barge into George and Percy's bedrooms, raving about a game of Quidditch. Hermione would be easier to ask, of course, if she had any affinity to Quidditch at all, but even then the aspect of a Quidditch game in the Weasley's backyard seemed foreign and awkward. The idea of all the inhabitants of the household sitting down for a meal together as they had once done now seemed foreign and awkward. Harry thought vaguely of how war had torn each of them apart, before returning his attention to the woman standing in front of him, an excuse at the ready.

"I'd really much rather have a lie down. I think I'm starting to get a headache."

"A headache never used to stop you boys from having a game of Quidditch," she said accusingly. Harry knew her attempt to make him change his mind would only be half-hearted, so he merely shrugged and made his way over to the door.

"I'll see you later, Mrs. Weasley." He didn't wait for her response before he hurried out of the room in the direction of the bathroom once more. He wouldn't be interrupted there, he wouldn't have to make excuses, and he would have time to think. Not thoughts of bliss and happy times, admittedly, but thoughts nonetheless.

* * *

Hermione woke with a start. She lurched forward, threw off her duvet cover and proceeded to withdraw her wand from her nightgown pocket. Her bedroom was bathed in the light of the sunrise, and her eyes seemed to take longer to adjust to the light than normal. She looked around the room once, using her eyes as the only way to detect a presence, before muttering, "Homenum Revelio."

Nothing. No vague outline of a figure that she had expected. Absolutely nothing. But Hermione wasn't prepared to lower her wand just yet, as she was as sure as she was about the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration that she had been awakened by the resounding crack that unequivocally signified apparation. But where could they be? She narrowed her eyes as though this simple action would somehow enlighten her to someone else's presence, and began to walk swiftly around the cluttered room.

The Burrow was largely safe, Hermione thought as she stumbled over a stack of books on her way to check the far corners of the room, so why would apparation be remotely possible? Laughing at herself, she walked to and sat back down on her bed once again. The sound of apparation had to have been part of a severely fragmented dream. The idea of the Burrow being subject of an attack was as preposterous as an attack on Harry Potter himself, who - Hermione had checked before retiring to bed last night - was tucked away, fast asleep.

_Wasn't he?_

She stood up and grabbed a dressing gown, before opening the door with a creak and exiting into the hallway. Harry's bedroom had been next door to Hermione's for years now, though Hermione would find herself wishing more than everything that he was back on the top floor with Ron again, and was often left ajar at night after Hermione had assured herself that he was asleep - _just in case_.

Hermione couldn't help but slow down as she approached his room. The door was as open as she had left it, and bristles of wood continued to stick out near the handle as it always had, but something was dreadfully different about the hallway surrounding the door; Harry's shoes, which Mrs. Weasley had always insisted should be taken off before he entered his room, were missing. The imprint of where they had been placed was barely visible, and Hermione felt the need to crouch down and wave her hand through the space where they had once stood for confirmation. With a sigh, she tore her eyes away from this anomaly and pushed open the door, careful to not let the bristles of wood brush by her hands, and the sight that met her eyes was one that she wished she could permanently remove from her mind.

Harry's bed was empty. This one thing alone was alarming to Hermione, but her next realisations chilled her to the bone; his bed was made, a single wand lay on his recently plumped pillow, and a photo frame lay alongside it.

With a strangled sob, Hermione launched herself at his bed in desperation as if she expected Harry to be lying there beneath his invisibility cloak with an amused look on his face, and began clawing at her hair with vigour. Her vision was blurred, her hands trembling, and the idea of exerting any kind of rationality was lost. Harry had left her.

He had willing left her. He had not been torn away from her as Ron had done, kicking and flailing, into the grasp of death. No. He had left knowing full well what he was doing, knowing full well that leaving the Burrow was sure to get him killed, knowing that each step he had taken to the threshold of the Burrow's boundaries would guarantee a loss of contact of each of the occupants in the Burrow for an unknown amount of time. He knew that no owls could enter the house for security reasons, knew that stepping outside of the Burrow would be something akin to fulfilling a death wish...

Oh, God. Hermione's whole body shook with the prospect of –

A barely audible cough interrupted her thoughts. It had sounded distant, like it may have come from downstairs, and Hermione rose from her pathetic position to clarify her suspicions. Perhaps someone had, indeed, managed to steal their way into the Burrow despite all the enchantments. Perhaps Harry had not willingly left her after all.

Upon reaching the ground floor, Hermione could clearly see an outline of a figure sitting on the couch. It was undoubtedly Harry. Hermione suddenly felt very foolish for her outburst. Why would Harry leave her? How could such a thought enter her mind? But she had to be sure that her thought was down to paranoia. Walking towards Harry, she seated herself next to him. His face was strangely vacant and Hermione wondered if he actually noticed her beside him.

"You were going to leave, weren't you?" Hermione looked at him for a full minute in anticipation for an answer, but upon realising that she was not to receive any, she stood up with a sigh and made her way to the kitchen.

"Yes." His voice was so faint, but it made her stop in her walk nonetheless. Hermione hated to hear him like this, but she had gotten used to it. The lack of gusto in his voice was now a part of Harry, and Hermione could not bring herself to not love everything Harry had to offer. Just looking at him, sitting there with his arms crossed and looking at something on the wall that only he could see, encouraged a rush of affection to surge through Hermione. He was just so...delicate.

"Why did you stay then?" Hermione asked a little too harshly, though genuinely curious.

Immediately, she knew she had said something out-of-the-loop. Harry closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. It was such an eerie noise when cast against the silence of the room. She had been too harsh. Why couldn't she have just accepted his answer? Hermione's thought process was muddled, littered with self-criticism and reprimandments of her treatment of Harry. But Harry was a grown man, Hermione reasoned after a while. He had once been a grown man who was more than capable of answering awkward questions, countering them with biting remarks, and winning people over with his infallible reasoning. Back when sarcasm and winning people over were apart of Harry, back before the death of...

"This." He said simply, one hand motioning to an old textbook lying on the coffee table, whilst the other fell to his lap. Hermione approached the table cautiously to take a look at the book's title. Her eyebrows rose skyward as soon as she could make it out.

"_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_?"

"D'you remember that Ron and I used to share the book, after he lost his own? The bloody git was always scrawling away in this book, and – " He leaned forward to grab the book from the table and began sifting through it with more enthusiasm than Harry had exerted in a while " – look here! You've even written in it, too. I remember thinking that it wasn't like you to be defacing books..."

"Yeah," Hermione said with a small smile at Harry. "I remember."

"Sometimes I think we should make a point of remembering him more, though." Harry said, glancing furtively at Hermione as if afraid that she would disagree.

"Harry," Hermione said softly, sitting down beside him once again. "I do nothing but remember him."

"But we never talk about him anymore!" Harry stood up abruptly and raked his shaking hands through his unruly hair. "For goodness sake, his name is _not_ ta - "

Before Harry had time to reach a conclusion, Hermione had engulfed him into a hug. At first she thought she had been out of order again, as Harry went rigid at her touch, but almost as soon as she had thought this, he began to shake with what she assumed were tears and was holding her as tightly as she was holding him.

"It's all my fault." Harry choked into her shoulder.

"Don't be so utterly ridiculous, Harry."

Hermione wanted nothing more than to stay in this embrace for as long as possible, but a few moments later Harry had withdrawn, his face flushed with tears and his glasses smudged.

As unorthodox as the feeling was, Hermione was extremely glad that Harry had let his guard down enough to cry; he had been as unresponsive as a part of the furniture for the last few years. Hermione had strong suspicions that this was because of his determination in believing his life was little more than a grandiose daydream.

"Are you _alright_ now?" She didn't know what made her ask this question, laced with hidden meaning, at that moment - apart from the burning desire for an affirmative reply - and Harry, too, seemed to look confused.

"Sorry, I shouldn't – "

"Yes," he interrupted her before she could defend herself for her misjudged question. "I've been so stupid, haven't I?"

She wanted to comfort him once more, to tell him that it had merely been his way of grieving, that by traipsing off into the mental state that he had been in had not been any inconvenience at all, but she didn't think he wanted to be lied to.

"I can't disagree with that," she snorted indignantly, folding her arms. "It really upset me that you viewed me as some sort of figment of _your_ imagination."

"_My_ imagination in particular? _Thanks_." Harry replied sarcastically.

Hermione laughed. "I've missed your sarcasm."

"Really?" Harry seemed genuinely surprised at this revelation. "I seem to remember you telling me on more than one occasion that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit."

"In that case, I've renounced my old ways. Or perhaps you're merely an exception."

Without caring if it made the man across from her uncomfortable or not, Hermione stared at Harry's now laughing face, embraced the swooping sensation in her stomach as she did so, a new-found glee her only emotion now that she no longer had to live with the empty shell Harry had once encompassed.

"You've never stopped meaning the world to me, Hermione. Not even when – " he paused, looking a little embarrassed. "Not even then." His laughter had been replaced by a barely detectable sad smile as he hugged her once more. "Whatever may happen, please, always remember that."

At that moment, Hermione couldn't remember a time before when she had felt so at peace with the world. She could almost fool herself into believing for a mere moment or two that a war was not being waged outside the confines of the Burrow, that Harry had not almost completely ignored her since Ginny's disappearance, that she was back at Hogwarts again with her only worries including exam grades and academic knowledge, and wondering whether Ron was finally going to ask her out...

It wasn't until three days later that Hermione could truly comprehend the inevitable meaning of Harry's words that morning; he had acted as she had always feared he would. He had left the Burrow for good, leaving behind a single note reiterating his sentiments to Hermione and one heart-wrenching statement that had left Hermione in a confused wreck for days on end:

_Times are desperate, Hermione, and I can't bring myself to be optimistic enough to let things play out any differently._

* * *

**A/N: **Reviews would be appreciated - constructive criticism, in particular. Anybody willing to be a beta-reader is more than welcome to send a private message my way. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 1: Roldan

**An Aphorism to Live By**

* * *

_Chapter 1: Roldan_

_Dec. 1st 1941_

He sat - ignoring the disqusitive stares of the surrounding students - upon his four-post bed, clutching the emerald green drapery that hung around it so as to not lose balance, affected as he was by the events of the evening.

_Death_, he thought to himself as he tried to remain in an upright position, _is such a joker_. He had been sure his mortality had been at risk when he had witnessed a man, hair unruly and adorned with a plain black robe, brandish a wand upon him with such sheer _loathing _in his eyes. The type of loathing he had never encountered before in another individual.

"Such loathing," he whispered aloud to himself, barely able to comprehend as to why he would look at him that way. He vaguely saw out of the corner of his eyes his dorm mates share looks of agitation and could not help but feel an ounce of satisfaction at their actions. _They still fear me_, he concluded as his mouth contorted into a smirk. _They have seen me at my worst, and yet..._

The silence that hung in the room was proof enough that the usually boisterous boys were waiting in fear for some kind of reaction and it was this thought that encouraged Tom to let go of the drapery.

"Riddle, mate – " the distinct voice of one of his dorm mates, Alphard Black, spoke up from the far corner of the room, but he was immediately struck by a non-verbal silencing charm sent by Tom. The latter smirked as he watched the former boy attempt to comprehend what had happened, mouthing words that no one in the room could hear, and turning in confusion to each for help. None came, as Tom had predicted, and he took this opportunity to step forward and reclaim his reputation.

"You will do well to remember exactly to whom you speak, Black. You are not my 'mate'," Tom spat the word out in disgust, "so you will not address me as such."

He let the words hang in the air for a few moments before taking a few more steps forward, precariously close to the young man, before crouching down to his eye level and whispering harshly, "Is that clear?" Tom laughed abruptly as he noticed that the boy's lip was quivering, and spoke again in a dangerously low voice, "Well? You always seem like you have so much to say, Black. Answer me!"

The boy was beginning to mouth incomprehensible words again, provoking more laughter from Tom as he turned to face his own bed. "I see." He swiftly turned back to the boy, wand raised to his throat, "I suppose you might need my help in order to speak again? Can you not manage one, measly, non-verbal counter-charm, Black? You put pureblood wizards to shame."

* * *

_Dec. 2nd 1941_

Monday morning began just as benignly as any other morning. Tom woke keenly, long before his other housemates, excited at the aspect of using magic in lessons after an unusual weekend.

It was, therefore, half-hour before breakfast was served that Tom walked into the Great Hall, a textbook in one hand whilst the other concealed a yawn, his feet automatically navigating him towards the Slytherin table on the far right of the room.

No other student was present from any of the four houses but the Headmaster and a few of the teachers were awake, some scribbling what Tom assumed were last-minute lesson plans or else leafing through the day's newspaper.

Armando Dippet, Tom had noticed ever since the Sorting Feast a few months ago, appeared to be significantly weaker than he had last year. His usually exuberant voice was now a mere rasp in comparison as he spoke to the Deputy, Professor Dumbledore, and his face appeared more lined. His hand even shook slightly as it rose to punctuate a point in conversation. Upon noticing Tom's attention, he merely curved his lip as an attempt to smile, instead of calling out a greeting as his normally did. There was clearly something gravely wrong with him – an illness, perhaps? Tom smiled politely back before returning to his book.

He had already read it before, of course, as it had been on his required book-list for the year, but there was something satisfying about reading a book again to gleam further understanding from the words that may not have been highlighted initially, and Tom lived for this in-depth knowledge.

"Good morning."

"'Morning," Tom mumbled distractedly, not really caring about the recipient of his greeting now sitting opposite him.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to offer my apologies, if you don't mind."

"Apologies?" Tom's head snapped upwards, brow furrowed in confusion. Seconds later he wished he hadn't; sitting there was the older boy from the previous evening, the boy who Tom had convinced himself for half a second was to be responsible for his death, adorned with black hair, circular glasses, and the new addition of a silver and green tie to accompany his black robes. Tom was tempted to leave the hall there and then, to take himself away from the situation.

"Yes," the stranger said with a slight inclination of his head. "It was not my intention to frighten – "

"I wasn't frightened," Tom sneered, somewhat offended, and still on the edge of moving himself away from the boy.

The boy sitting opposite him regarded him for a few seconds and Tom found himself loathing how his eyes appeared to be scanning him in judgement. He was not used to being scrutinised so heavily; his peers had never seen him as anything more than skin deep. As the strange boy's stare subsided, Tom pointedly grabbed his book again as a way to block further conversation. It didn't work.

"That's more than I could've hoped for. I dislike having to pretend I'm sorry for something I had no control over." He laughed bitterly. "We can thank _him_ – " he gestured with his head towards to Headmaster with a slight scowl " – for that." The nameless boy regarded the Headmaster with dislike but seconds later was preoccupied by the sudden appearance of breakfast.

Tom slipped his book into his bag in favour of the food in front of him. "Why is Professor Dippet to blame?"

He snorted, and Tom was shocked by his audacity – Slytherin were hardly known for such displays, and the boy opposite clearly wasn't aware of this. Tom refrained from telling him as much out of curiosity, to see how long it would take for him to cower under the unwritten laws of Slytherin.

"It's anyone's guess as to how he became Headmaster of the school. He's clearly incompetent. He botched up my 'effing portkey to Hogwarts. I was supposed to be transported to his office, not the dungeons, to be sorted. Imagine my surprise when I found myself surrounded by a group of people instead of the one person I expected. Naturally, I felt the need to raise my wand to defend myself. There's a war on, y'know." He shook his head slightly, and Tom noticed a jagged cut on his forehead.

"Gelert Grindelwald's never shown an interest in the United Kingdom." Tom said quickly.

"_Yet_."

"Fair point." Tom could not help but agree with him. Grindelwald was bound to at least try to attack Britain at some point – _try_ being the key word. Tom, personally, thought he had no chance.

A straggle of girls had gathered at the Ravenclaw table, seemingly, to do nothing but giggle furiously at some sort of inside joke or another. Their canned laughter annoyed him for some glaring reason. It wasn't until each of them looked at him that he noticed he was staring at all. Cursing inwardly, he turned back to the older boy who looked at him knowingly. Tom resisted rolling his eyes in favour of sipping some tea.

Tom supposed that his would-be killer's reasons for such an offensive introduction the previous night made sense, even if Tom didn't necessarily believe him. It wasn't particularly important in the scheme of Tom's life, and by the way the boy acted he wouldn't be particularly important in the scheme of the house, either. He had other things to worry about. He thought back to the book he had been reading and hoped that his understanding was deep enough for class.

"I'm Harold Smith, by the way," he offered his hand and Tom forced himself to shake it. He could see no reason why he shouldn't.

"Tom Riddle," he said quietly with all the enthusiasm of someone on their death bed, hoping that this would be enough to stop the conversation.

The two lapsed into silence as they ate their toast and drank their tea until a few more Slytherins began to arrive and Tom was forced into small talk. There were only so many times that Tom could greet people with a smile, however, before he was tempted to reach for his wand, which was as good a reason as any as to why the final boy, Matthew Selve, to sit down at the table was greeted with little more than a scowl by Tom.

Five minutes later he was surrounded by a group of sixth and seventh years – an unusual occurrence for any other fourth year, perhaps, but not for Tom, who found that it was with ease that he spoke to the older students.

Harold was looking uncomfortable by the group of boys that had surrounded them. Tom supposed this was due to some social awkwardness rather than genuine dislike, and resisted a fully-fledged smile at his pain. The group of boys had noticed Harold's presence, of course, but all seemed to be waiting for the right moment to be introduced.

"Tom Riddle, the very man I wanted to see!" Stephen - a sixth year boy with alarming red hair - said abruptly, grinning at him, a gleam Tom recognised alight in his eyes. He was holding a newspaper clipping in his hand. It was not unusual for Tom to see this visage; Stephen Agnew was often seen sifting through countless news articles in a secluded area of the library for entertainment value. He was often ridiculed by his friends for his apparent obsession, but though they often brought attention to this slight defect, even they could not deny that he was a respectable pureblood wizard in every other sense. Tom would never stretch to calling him 'respectable', but then he was hardly fit to judge.

Articles brought to his attention were often humourous, or else morbid, and Tom recalled with a grimace one uncomfortable occasion last year wherein he was forced to explain to Professor Merrythought exactly why he was reading an article concerning a group of pureblood boys who had managed to turn a Quidditch match into a massacre of muggles, instead of the class work he had been set. Fortunately, his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had accepted his excuse that it was merely research for a Muggle Studies project with minimal fuss.

"'Snot as funny as the last one I showed you, but every article's worth a read," Stephen was saying as he waved the fragment of paper through the air enthusiastically. "Ain't that right, men?" No one gave any indication that they were listening, except Tom, who graciously accepted the article.

He could immediately tell that it wasn't from any mainstream news source. The writing was riddled with profanity and seemed lacklustre in writing style. Hardly family-friendly, Tom thought.

"Quite recent, this one. 'Bout fifteen or sixteen years old..."

Tom skim-read the article, about some notorious pureblood wizard supremacists from the Gaunt – such a fitting title, considering the not-so attractive description accompanying the main bulk of the article – family, and their heinous crimes, ranging from torture to permanent memory charms. Something about the article was recognisable to Tom, though he couldn't quite recall why.

"Stephen, haven't you shown me this article before?" Tom asked.

The boy addressed, who had been in the process of shoving a stack of clippings into a second-years hand, looked confused.

"I don't know, Tom. I might have done."

Disliking the idea of grappling with some long-lost memory for the rest of the day, Tom cast his mind away from the matter and slipped the paper into his bag for later reference.

"Could you pass the sugar bowl, Harold?" Tom asked quietly, his mind fixed entirely upon pouring himself some more tea before classes began.

"Of course, Tom."

Everything after this brief moment happened in a mad rush of flailing limbs and confusion on Tom's part. A mere second after Tom had grasped the dish, Harold had shaken hands with half a dozen of the surrounding students and was talking comfortably with Stephen about the rumours surrounding the Gaunt family.

"There is very little evidence to believe - yes, I realise what you're saying, but - oh, really?" Stephen seemed to be a bundle of enthusiasm at the aspect of someone who shared his interests, though whether Harold truly shared this interest was something else entirely.

Half-way through his beverage, Tom's attention had turned once again to his Arithmancy textbook as he tried to recall all the information that he thought might be helpful for the first lesson, so engrossed that he only realised that the bell for first lesson had sounded when the scraping of chairs disrupted his reading and someone beside him jostled the book from his hand.

"See you at lunch, Tom." Harold jerked his hand a little with what Tom assumed was a wave, before running to catch up with Stephen once more.

* * *

"If you look closely, class," Professor Hodge was saying in his usual monotonous voice, "you will see the indirect correlation between the number nine and thirteen, which in turn correlate to..."

Tom could not bring himself to listen any longer. It appeared that the Professor had placed the book that Tom had so intently read on that year's book-list for the sole purpose of merely talking through it, chapter-by-chapter, for what Tom hoped wasn't the entire year. It was approaching lunch, and they had flipped two pages, so this hope was nothing less than fruitless.

"I will now be distributing a numeral and letter equating chart that I wish for you to use for many after-class tasks from this moment forward. It is, therefore, imperative that you do not lose it, unless you fancy having to take a trip to the library wherein you will not only have to find the book from which the chart has been taken unaided, but will also be required to copy the entirety of the chart out once more."

Tom resisted rolling his eyes at the rapt attention of the people around him. He saw Roldan, a Ravenclaw who sat next to him in most classes, shift in his seat at the aspect of what Tom thought was a meaningless threat of punishment - surely the Professor knew that a Summoning Charm was all that was needed to retrieve a missing object? This, in turn, made Tom wonder as to the number of people in the room who were capable of performing the spell – they hadn't learnt it in class, admittedly, but since when was that a reason not to learn something?

"I know what you're thinking," Roldan said in a hush when Tom turned to him to voice his thoughts. "Not everyone is as prodigious as you."

"Evidently," Tom snorted in amusement, as the rest of the class held the charts in their hands like it was some sort of ancient relic.

Roldan shook his head in exasperation, before indicating towards the left side of the room. "Why has Alphard been glancing at you more than usual this lesson?" He asked in a hush.

"Perhaps you should ask him that." Tom replied.

The light-haired boy sighed. "I'm sure that would be a more than cheerful conversation with a boy who makes it his business to tell me I'm a worthless wizard at least twice a week." Roldan looked at the boy in question furtively. "Seriously, though, the way he's looking at you, it's like – like he's scared of you, or something."

Tom smirked. "You may wear your heart on your sleeve, Roldan, but you are very perceptive."

"What did you do to him, Tom?" Roldan asked, and Tom wasn't surprised to see that he looked slightly fearful.

"He was being as ridiculous as he normally is." Tom replied quickly, hoping he would brush over it.

Roldan narrowed his eyes. "What, specifically, did he do?"

"He called me his 'mate'," Tom bit out, glaring at the Ravenclaw with heightening intensity.

"Why, in that largely complex brain of yours, does that warrant any form of violence?"

"I was already reeling after that Harold boy almost killed me in the dungeons yesterday, so it was understandable that anything that would further aggravate me would bring me to the end of my tether." He glanced at the clock on the wall – only a few minutes remaining.

"Oh," Roldan said, with a slow nod. "I understand now. Alphard was attempting to _comfort_ you, and you threw it right back in his face."

Tom visibly blanched at the accusatory tone in Roldan's voice. He was usually more accepting than this. Not by much, admittedly, but that was beside the point.

"Why are you even defending him?" Tom asked harshly, lowering his voice as the Professor walked around the desk. "He's nothing but impolite toward you. You should appreciate someone silencing him for once."

It was Roldan's turn to be taken aback. His whole head turned toward the subject of their discussion, and when he next looked towards Tom his face was flushed.

"I'm sure he has a good heart." He spoke the words with such conviction that Tom almost pitied him.

"You are an overly sentimental fool."

Roldan scoffed at the accusation, taking Tom by surprise. "I thought there was hope for you, I really did," he laughed bitterly. Tom found it disconcerting. Where was the Roldan that he had endured for the last three years when he needed him?

"How was your summer?" Tom asked after a long silence, attempting to change the subject.

"Now he asks!" Roldan exclaimed, prompting many people to turn towards him in confusion. Tom waited for their attention to subside before replying.

He leaned towards the boy and hissed. "What's wrong with you today?" Somewhere in the distance, the bell signalled the end of lesson but his focus was glued intently to Roldan.

"Nothing is wrong, Riddle," he spat, gathering up his belongings and dumping them unceremoniously into his shoulder bag with a snarl. "Why must you assume something is wrong?"

Tom sighed loudly, leaving the array of parchment and quills untouched upon the desk before him. "Because something is quite clearly wrong, perhaps?"

The light-haired boy slung his bag around his shoulder, making a beeline for the door. Before his feet could touch the threshold of the Arithmancy room, however, he stopped and cast Tom a furtive glance.

"C'mon, Tom. We're going to be late for Divination," he muttered, and something akin to gratification settled in Tom's stomach.

* * *

The day continued in much the same way, much to Tom's chagrin, and by the time Ancient Runes had finished and lunchtime had begun, Roldan's neurotic behaviour had gone from strength to strength, to the point where Tom felt he had no choice but ambush him after class.

"Speak up now, Roldan, or so help me God I will not be responsible for my actions," Tom held Roldan up against the wall of the seventh floor corridor by the scruff of his neck. "Well?" Tom continued, as Roldan made no attempt to reply.

"Only - you could – could appearing c – caring in an aggressive manner." Roldan choked out, prompting Tom to lessen his hold on the boy. "Jesus, Tom - the fear factor, very impressive - yes – " Roldan held out a hand as Tom began to speak once more " – it has worked." He muttered incomprehensibly under his breath, though Tom felt sure he heard a string of swear words protruding from his mouth.

Tom quickly dropped his hands to his side, letting Roldan adjust to the lack of pressure around his neck. He eyed the boy in front of him in curiosity, and couldn't help but feel a slight remorse for his actions as he noticed the red mark circulating his neck and the beads of sweat that Roldan was dabbing away with a handkerchief. The tactility was over in a second, however, as Tom realised that that his actions had prompted Roldan to tell him what he had asked for – and therefore had to have been good for something.

"I'm leaving Hogwarts," Roldan said quietly, his gaze intently focused upon the panelling of the wall just above Tom's right shoulder.

"Why would you possibly need to stall your education?" Tom asked tentatively, not quite ready to believe what Roldan was saying; people did not just _leave_ Hogwarts. Why would they? But then, people were not prone to joining Hogwarts at a late stage, either. Perhaps this was a day of new beginnings for the systems that the school had sought to uphold for many years. Tom decided he didn't much like it, as he thought back to Harold at breakfast, and at the Ravenclaw before him, who had slumped to the floor and was leaning back on the wall in a seated position. Tom crouched down and joined him, barely registering his actions as he waited for a reason.

"I'm ill, Tom." Roldan sighed, scraping his hair back swiftly and scoffing when it fell into his eyes once more. "I'll resemble Mr. Dippet soon enough. That's why I have to leave."

The two fourth-year boys sat in silence for a long while, a while that Tom filled with incessant ramblings that ran amok in his head, before gathering himself enough to say the most tactless thing he could've said at that moment: "I thought I was the only one that had noticed that the Headmaster was ill."

Roldan hummed in contemplation. "Maybe you notice these things more when you're ill yourself."

"That explanation has no logic," Tom frowned. "I noticed and I'm not ill."

"How foolish of me," Roldan replied a little too quickly for Tom's liking, but it hardly mattered at the time. Roldan was ill, very ill as Tom recounted the visage of Professor Dippet at breakfast that morning, so just for this once he was at liberty to say whatever the hell he wanted to say, judgement be-damned.

* * *

**A/N: **I didn't spend quite as much time perfecting this chapter in comparison to the prologue, so I apologise in advance if it seems a little unrefined. Anyway, this is my introduction to the character of Tom Riddle - and Roldan's outlet? I know Tom seems a little different compared to how some fanfiction writers perceive him**. **I, initially, wrote him in much the same way before realising that it wasn't realistic for someone to be that cold and structured all the time - particularly in youth. _Not that I'm trying to reduce Tom Riddle to normalacy._

Thank-you for reading! Reviews, of course, would be appreciated_. _I'm not a fan of flame-reviews - who is? - but do not hesitate to hold back any constructive criticism you may have. Chances are I've had the same doubts as you and I'd be only too happy to rectify my mistakes.


	3. Chapter 2: Contradictions

**An Aphorism to Live By**

* * *

_Chapter 2: Contradictions_

_Dec. 3rd 1941_

Roldan didn't show up for breakfast the next day, or the day after that, and nobody seemed to notice that he was missing. Except Tom, of course, who had seen him whisked away by Thestral-drawn carriages in the dead of night. He had placed himself under a more than efficient disillusionment charm, and yet had still been discovered by Professor Dumbledore who had tusked him for breaking curfew, but had bade him goodnight with a smile and passed him a note to hand to any other Professor that he may encounter. Not that Tom needed it; his charm-work may not have fooled Dumbledore, but he managed to skim by both Slughorn and Merrythought with relative ease.

Not that it had anything to do with anything now; Wednesday was another day, one that began with an unusual amount of sunshine and heat for a December day, and one that would surely end with the light of the full moon.

It was lunchtime, and Tom had managed to sneak a sandwich from the Great Hall to enjoy the good weather. The grounds seemed to be desolate, and Tom found himself enjoying the solitude. Roldan would've no doubt ruined the peace had he been here. He would've likely started a conversation about the new Dream Analysis homework for Divination. Tom would've told him about the dream he had the previous night about being stabbed to death by King Canute for not being able to control the tide, and how it reminded him of the Muggle History lessons that he had endured. Roldan would've laughed at the oddity of the dream, before asking what Tom thought the most interesting form of death would be, at which point Tom would confess that he did not want to die, and Roldan would punch his arm full-force and tell him that he was in no uncertain terms being stupid, which would in turn make Tom _feel _stupid.

_If Roldan were here..._

Tom sighed, thinking about perhaps sending him an owl to nullify the sudden irrepressible need to have a conversation with the awkward Ravenclaw. _God forbid._

He chucked the remainder of his barely eaten sandwich into the Black lake, leant back on the grass and closed his eyes. He faintly heard the rippling of water, and in his mind's eye he imagined the Giant Squid's tentacles encompassing the food and taking it into the watery depths of the lake. How long had the Giant Squid lived, he wondered? Infinitely longer than any witch or wizard, perhaps?

"Is it comfortable?" Tom's eyes flew open, half-expecting to see Roldan. He was met, instead, with the figure of Harold looming over him, arms folded and blocking out the sun.

"It's bearable," Tom replied, propping himself up to get a better look at the grounds. They were still empty. He was truly alone with his would-be murderer.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" Harold asked politely, gesturing to the patch of grass on the right side of Tom. He had avoided sitting there, himself, as it was half-cast in the shadow of the castle.

"Be my guest." Tom replied shortly, before lying back down and closing his eyes once more.

"Don't mind if I do," Harold chuckled, but his laughter seemed to phase out once he noticed that Tom was not joining in.

He filled the silence, instead, by whistling an unfamiliar tune. Tom tried to pinpoint it, but found that he could not; his knowledge of music was not particularly grand. This reminded him of the article Stephen had given him, and when he got up to retrieve it from his bag, Harold spoke up once more.

"Do you have any classes this afternoon?"

Tom found the article he was looking for before answering. "No, I don't."

"Me either," Harold said with a small grin. "I thought you'd be the type to be cooped up in the library during free hours, if you don't mind me saying."

Tom very much wished to tell him that he did mind that he was even speaking at all. "I would, usually, but I'm slightly preoccupied at the moment for schoolwork."

"I understand." Harold said offhandedly, and the minuet temptation to curse him to within an inch of his life grew. The bespectacled boy turned towards him. "Roldan seemed like a pretty decent guy to me."

Tom frowned and, before he could stop himself, exclaimed: "You thought Roldan was 'pretty'!"

"Allow me to rephrase myself," Harold said once his sudden bout of laughter had subsided. "Roldan seemed like a good person."

"He was," Tom said, still eyeing Harold suspiciously. "I hated him for it."

"I thought I was the only one who had noticed that Roldan had gone," Harold said after a while. "There was no announcement, no gossip – "

Tom cut his sentence short with a scowl. "Roldan never liked attention."

"Good people never do." Harold said softly, before glancing at his watch. "Y'know, I have detention with Merrythought after dinner. Not bad for a first day, eh?" He looked incredibly amused by this. Tom, who had never been amused by nor had a detention, could not understand why.

"What did you do?" Tom asked. Professor Merrythought was usually a rather lax example of how teachers usually acted, not known for handing out punishments unless absolutely necessary.

"_Blasphemy!_" Harold spoke in a high-pitched voice, trying and failing to sound like the elderly witch. "_You may have been able to speak like that at home, Mr. Smith, but things operate very differently here at Hogwarts!_" He shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "I only called Matthew Selve a fucking idiot."

Tom couldn't help but agree with him in that respect; Selve could barely cast a disarming spell without trouble. How he managed to get into the house of the cunning was a lost cause, unless his stupidity was one big charade. Now _that_ would be impressive.

"What did Selve do to warrant such an insult?" Tom asked curiously, and a torrent of déjà vu seemed to overcome him. Since when did his words mirror Roldan's?

"He was saying all sorts of things to Scarlett Green." He sniffed. "I'm not even sure I can repeat them."

Tom vaguely remembered that Scarlett Green had had a brief stint with Norman Goyle, a sixth year who wasn't necessarily prone to being inconspicuous when it came to who he was courting. Scarlett Green had been his favourite topic of conversation at the Slytherin Common Room since their courtship had ended, presumably on bad terms, with Norman frequently more than keen to reveal details of the Scarlett he had known.

"Perhaps his words suited her," Tom replied brazenly, before adding more heatedly, "and it's a bit late to feign ignorance when it comes to speaking profanely!"

"Finally!" Harold raised his arms towards the sky. "I get to see Tom when he's not as calm and collected as he'd have us all believe. Y'know, you're an exceedingly good actor..." he drifted off as he saw Tom gather up his belongings.

"I have a Divinations essay to complete," Tom said shortly as he walked up to the Entrance Hall, not bothering to glance behind him, angry at the audacity of the older Slytherin seated on the ground.

"I'll see you around, Tom." Harold said unsurely, before whistling that same unfamiliar tune that Tom would later curse him for, as it attached itself to his mind for the duration of the day and kept him up for most of that night.

* * *

_Dec. 19th 1941_

"Tom, m'boy!" Slughorn called out to him a record two seconds after his entrance. The young Slytherin was whisked away to a group of famous 'intellects' almost immediately. As much as Tom disliked Slughorn for the constant parties that Tom was forced to attend and the way in which he often eyed him like a coin collector would a shiny new piece, he could not help but appreciate the company that such parties bade him keep. Everyone, from introverted authors to mild-mannered curse-breakers, adorned Professor Slughorn's address book and a certain admiration had to be innate within all the students that attended for Slughorn's skill in associating with _only the best_.

"Ladies and gentleman, I'd very much like to introduce you to arguably the brightest spark off this generation..." Slughorn was continuing to talk, but Tom could no longer hear. He was unceremoniously pushed into the limelight and was having his hand grappled by every _somebody_ within its vicinity: a Mr. Todd Cherry insisted it was simply a delight to see him and affirmed that it was in his best interests to draw his attention to his own best-selling book on political success before he was snatched away by a tall, curly-haired woman whose name he could not recall, but insisted that it was her own magical formulae for shampoo that had won her business five annual awards within the last five years; a surly-looking man whose nose seemed to gravitate towards the ceiling was next to introduce himself as a "Gregory Pohe, such a fine man to be introduced to such as yourself is sure to have heard of my breakthrough research in the potion-making field of – "

But Tom was not to known exactly what potion-making field Gregory Pohe was affiliated to, as Slughorn had hurryingly escorted him over to a straddle of students, at the forefront of which was...

"Harold Smith, my good fellow!" Slughorn's voice was as loud as ever, and Tom's silent prayers that Harold would not hear the Professor's callings went unyielding. "Here, here...come stand here – that's right, beside Mr. Riddle with you, Harold! Now, lads, can you not see the similarities?"

Tom turned to stare at Harold, dumbfounded by the Professor's accusations. He supposed that they did look alike in some senses – dark hair, dark eyes and the same manner of standing with their hands firmly behind their backs – but Tom failed to see the entertaining notion that Slughorn evidently did as he chuckled as he watched them both regard each other.

"It's not just the look of the two of you either," Slughorn said, whisking a glass of cherry from a waiter as she passed and hiccupping after consumption. "Are you certain you're not relations? There's an _aura _about the two of you – oh, speaking of auras!" He interrupted his own speech suddenly; glancing around the room with his eyes squinted. "I must find your Divination Professor and ward her away from Mr. Black again – I do _not_ want a repeat of last year's fiasco. Isn't that right, Tom?"

Remembering Alphard's fear as he was told that he would soon be an outcast in his family by a very drunk Professor Lawry last year, Tom jerked his head in agreement. His mind and eyes were still fixated on Harold, who had navigated toward Scarlett Green on the dance floor. It did not bode well with him that the two should be compared. As far as he was concerned, Harold was everything he was not - crass, extroverted and, if his subsequent dancing was anything to go by, an utter fool.

As the evening wore on, and the clock was approaching midnight, Professor Slughorn had drunk enough cherry to have offered everyone in his path a dance, and Tom had thought it within his best interest to take his leave before he was forced to tango with his less-than-sober teacher.

As he walked slowly towards the Slytherin Common Room, he induced that he wasn't tired, and was half-heartedly deciding on which book to read when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps behind him.

"Tom Riddle, isn't it?" Tom turned around to find Harold Smith. He seemed slightly dishevelled, and Tom supposed this was because of all the dancing he had spied him doing. He nodded by way of reply, as Harold fell into step beside him.

"If there's one thing I hate more than incompetence," Harold said, reminding Tom of their first full conversation concerning Professor Dippet, "It's parties, and pretending for two hours straight that I'm goddamned enjoying myself."

Tom paused in his walk to let the daunting aspect of the truth in Slughorn's observation wash over him. _Perhaps they were not so different after all._

"What the hell have you stopped for, Tommy? Did you drop a knut?" Harold incited in a singsong voice somewhere in the distance.

_Or perhaps they were._

* * *

**A/N: **My inspiration returned full-throttle recently, so I've decided not to 'give up' on this story, not that I did in the first place. In some ways it was never quite as far from my mind – just momentarily displaced whilst I dealt with things like life – and I wholeheartedly believe that I will maintain an interest in this fanfiction from now on. Reviews, as ever, are appreciated.


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